Your Place
by Dea Liberty
Summary: The battle may have been won, but the conflict has only just begun. Lancelot survives Badon Hill but not everyone is as relieved as Arthur is and a confrontation leads Lancelot to question himself. AL SLASH.


**Title:** Your Place (1/2)  
**Pairing:** Arthur/Lancelot  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** The battle may have been won, but the conflict has only just begun. Lancelot survives Badon Hill but not everyone is as relieved as Arthur is and a confrontation leads Lancelot to question himself.  
**A/N:** AU, where Lancelot lives.

He could hear voices floating around him, drawing him closer to the surface, but he could not make out what they were saying. He could hear snippets of conversation: "...hopefully no infection...", "...don't know if he's going to...", "...rest some more, it's no use..." The pain in his shoulder - so close to his heart - flared up, forcing him back into the drowning darkness from where he had just surfaced. The bliss of unconsciousness was still too tempting to open his eyes.

When he woke again, it was quieter. There were a couple of voices just outside the door or window, he couldn't tell, whispering to each other. Slowly, this time, he let his other four senses come back to him, waiting with a patience he had not formerly had. There were things he needed to do, he remembered - and a promise left to fulfill, although, for the life of him, he couldn't quite remember what it was.

His lashes fluttered, his eyelids unusually heavy or he uncommonly without strength, or maybe, he mused, both, but he finally managed to see the world.

It was dark - night time, then - and there was a fire, glowing somewhere outside. The noises of celebration and festivity came from there, but around his room there was only that hushed whispering and quiet, although strained, laughter.

The bed he was lying on was soft, although he still felt stiff from, he guessed, lying down for so long, and there was a familiar smell still clingy to the sheets that comforted him beyond reason.

He turned his head, and had to close his eyes again as his vision swam but, this time, he refused to yield to the shadows again. He opened them again when he felt like the world had stopped spinning, and looked at his surroundings. A soiled cloth hung over a basin of cold water, and there was a chair, with a blanket draped over it, by his bedside. He moved his arm sideways as if it would give him clues as to his mysterious keeper. The part of the bed nearest to the chair was still warm. Whoever had kept vigil over him had only just left.

With great effort and pain, he sat up, having to slump back against the wall, eyes again falling shut, in exhaustion. A few minutes passed by before he was able to look around again. The room was incredibly familiar - but he still couldn't remember why. Frustrated, his eyes scanned the rest of the room - chest of drawers, chair, table, cupboard - stopping on a set of armour lying carefully on a chair in the corner.

Arthur's armour. He should have known.

It all came flooding back to him in an onslaught of memories and sensations that was so intense, it took his breath away.

Arthur's bed, Arthur's smell, Arthur's touch, Arthur's warmth, Arthur's taste, Arthur's voice....

Arthur.

It had been what had called him back. It had been Arthur's soothing, desperate voice that had filtered through to him as he floated between death and life. It was the memory of Arthur that made him stop on his way to that proverbial 'light at the end of the tunnel'. And it was a promise to Arthur that had made him turn and come back.

_I swear, Arthur. I swear I won't leave your side, not in this life, not in the next - not even death can tear me from my place. And my place is by your side. Whenever you need me, I will be there. I swear it._

And Arthur still needed him. He could not go on ahead, because Arthur still needed him.

Arthur had pleaded with his God and, when that had not worked - he had pleaded with Lancelot himself.

And so, Lancelot came back - because Arthur finally turned to him, instead of to his God. Arthur talked to him, instead of to his God. Arthur needed him, more than he needed his God.

And he needed Arthur too.

He threw his leg resolutely over the side of the bed and had to pause painfully, breathing hard. He had never been this helpless before in his life and he hated the feeling. Frustrated with himself, he moved again, stubbornly ignoring the pain in his shoulder. The only thought in his mind was to find Arthur. He needed Arthur. Now.

He toppled unceremoniously onto the ground, a resounding crash echoing through the halls as he knocked into the chair, his hand bringing the basin of water down to join him.

He curled up and whimpered. In pain. In loneliness. In despair. All he could think of was Arthur.

The door burst open and hurried, panicked footsteps brought someone to his side, but Lancelot barely registered it, focusing on not passing out again. Warm arms were pulling him up gently, back onto the bed and a voice, strained with worry, was speaking to him, trying to soothe his terrified state.

When his vision finally came back, it was to the most stunning sight he thought he had ever seen.

Arthur.

"Lancelot?" he whispered, as if afraid that excessive noise would hurt him, or that it would make him disappear. It was, possibly, the most wonderful thing he had ever heard.

Then again, he felt like he had been reborn. And everything about Arthur had always been wonderful.

He tried to say Arthur's name, to tell him how he'd come back, to tell him that he came back to fulfil his oath, but all that came out was a croak.

The most beautiful look of relief passed over Arthur's face before he swiftly walked away from Lancelot. The shock and fear of seeing Arthur walk away made him whimper, trying desperately to reach for him, to stop him from leaving him alone. Tears began to gather in his eyes when Arthur disappeared from sight - but he didn't hear the door open - and then Arthur was back, tipping water carefully into his open mouth and wiping away the stray tears.

"I'm still here. I just went to get some water." He was still whispering, still afraid, brushing Lancelot's hair from his eyes.

Lancelot recovered and tried again. "Arthur." His voice was rough with disuse, but it felt wonderful to say that name. So he did it again. "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur." And now, it was as if he couldn't _stop_ saying it.

And somehow, he was clinging to Arthur as if he was his lifeline which, he supposed, he was. Arthur was clutching him back with as much fervour, somehow managing to avoid Lancelot's wound, repeating Lancelot's name like a mantra, tears flowing freely from his eyes, fingers running continually through his hair as if testing to see if he was real. They clung onto each so tightly, so desperately that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

Some time later, it could have been minutes or hours, he didn't know and he didn't care, they lay together, still afraid of letting the other for fear that they'd lose each other again. Arthur was still petting Lancelot, now with less desperation that before, and didn't seem to have any inclination to stop anytime soon.

And Lancelot didn't mind. He was drifting in and out of sleep, now content, knowing that Arthur would be there when he woke again.

He woke up to Arthur smoothing the hair out of his eyes again, and shifting Lancelot in his arms, so that he could sit up. Lancelot gave a content sigh as he settled back down beside him, and Arthur smiled gently at him.

The door creaked open, revealing a young woman, slim and graceful, walking with an air of belonging and confidence. Guinevere. That was her name. She approached Arthur's side, throwing a rather disgusted glare at Lancelot, seeming incredibly discontent to see him in Arthur's arms.

"Arthur," she said, voice sounding sugar-coated to Lancelot. Something was screaming at Lancelot that she was bad news, that this was a bad idea, that she wasn't to be trusted. But it seemed like Arthur trusted her. It seemed like she loved and cared for Arthur. 

Something was wrong, but Lancelot couldn't quite place what. It seemed as if he came back with knowledge he didn't formerly have, but he still didn't know what his mind was trying to tell him.

"Arthur," she repeated, placing a hand on Arthur's. "The leaders want to talk with you. They're in the hall." Arthur made to protest, pulling Lancelot closer to his chest, but Guinevere interrupted him. "I'll watch Lancelot until you return."

It seemed as if her words were honest enough, and the smile directed at Arthur seemed sincere, but that same _something_ was still screaming at Lancelot. He had not the energy to protest as Arthur sighed, and slipped away from him.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, letting them trail down his cheek. He hesitated, then dropped a kiss onto Lancelot's forehead, missing the glare that Guinevere shot the knight.

"I'll be back in a little bit. Rest, Lancelot," he whispered, emotion lacing his words.

Reluctantly, Lancelot let him go.

And knew it was a bad idea as soon as the door shut.

Guinevere approached the bed, no trace of her former gentleness left and glared down at him.

"It's a pain you've survived," she hissed, sounding like the snake Lancelot thought her to be from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. "It was enough trouble getting Arthur to notice me with you around, and I thought I was finally rid of you. But you've survived." She was practically spitting. Lancelot couldn't decide if she was jealous, or if it was something else. He glared back, refusing to back down.

"He's been in here, paying attention to you, looking after you. He hasn't looked my way since that battle, and he hasn't been taking the responsibilities that he's meant to if he is to become king." She turned away, walking towards the window so that Lancelot couldn't see her expression. "If it was that easy, I wouldn't need him. But the people want him as their king; they think him a hero."

"He _is_ a hero," spat Lancelot, with as much venom as he could hear in Guinevere's voice, legendary anger beginning to burn. "He saved your country - not his - yours. He saved your people. And he saved you. How dare you imply that he is not a hero? How dare you imply that you don't need him? How _dare_ you?"

"Because I've never wanted him," she answered, turning around, face calm and open. She wasn't lying. "Because I only needed him to do all that you've said. Because I couldn't have done it myself. But now that Britain is safe, I want to be Queen of this island. So I need him to take his place as king, with me as his queen."

"You're saying that you're using Arthur, that you don't care? You _used_ him as if he were a tool!"

"He is a tool." There. Calm as you like. She didn't flinch or blink. She wasn't lying.

Lancelot hissed, murderously, hackles rising. There was nothing he could do. Not until Arthur returned. But then...would Arthur believe him, or her?

She approached him, drawing a vial from her robes. "But you know too much. I know I can persuade Arthur to believe me, but why bother? He'd still want to care for you, even if you were completely out of your mind. He's kind like that, Arthur is." She smiled mockingly. "Why bother, when I can be rid of you so easily?"

Lancelot stayed very still, trying to figure out his options. He couldn't die. He couldn't leave Arthur to be used by this creature. He just couldn't, not after coming back.

Guinevere moved to tip the poison down his throat. Poison, he was not so scared of, but the poison that she was feeding Arthur - her lies, her sweet words - that was far more dangerous - that, he was afraid of.

At the lat moment, Lancelot twisted away, knocking the vial from her hands and spilling it all over her, before tumbling from the bed.

She hissed at him, acting every bit the little manipulative snake she was. A whipped a knife out of somewhere and approached him again, laughing. 

"You're going to make this difficult for me, aren't you? That's alright, I can talk my way out of anything. You don't want to die peacefully? So be it." She smiled vindictively. "Suffer before you die, as my revenge for my people that you have killed."

Lancelot snarled, managing to get a good swipe at her before pulling himself out of the corner. Anything is better than being cornered.

Guinevere laughed at his feeble attempting, enjoying playing with him. "Where are you going? Come Lancelot, face me. Come, let us fight for a place in Arthur's heart. When you are gone, your place there will be no more. He will forget you." She swiped at him again, catching him on the cheek as he rolled away. She laughed, the sound like the tingling glass - and just as deadly. "You're useless, Lancelot. Completely useless. You're of no use to Arthur. You can't even defend yourself from little old me. And you're the one that's going to hurt Arthur. Because of your madness and you attacking me, you will die. And Arthur will grieve. And, instead of you being there to comfort him in his time of grief, you will be causing the grief - and I will be easing the pain. I will be there for him - and you won't."

She swung at Lancelot again, this time, catching him closer to his wound, forcing him to twist away. His vision swirled and he fought not to pass out, pain washing through every part of his body and attacking his every sense. The wounds on his cheek and shoulder were both bleeding freely.

"Even now, Lancelot, you are hurting Arthur. You are a burden. Arthur is weak - and it's all your fault. She dropped another blow on Lancelot's leg, stopping his escape.

"I will be everything to Arthur. I will be everything that you are, as well as everything that you are not," she declared, stepping on his arm and, effectively pinning him in place, ready to deliver the final blow. She stepped away, enjoying the sight of Lancelot, weak with pain, crumbled at her feet.

And brought her dagger down.

Metal crashed with metal - and she found her blade locked with Excalibur.

She looked up fearfully to see Arthur's eyes blazing with anger, fear and confusion. One flick of the wrist and she was knocked to the ground with Excalibur at her throat. He retracted his sword when she made no move to try to cause any hard. Pain - more excruciating than the physical pain he was feeling - almost shattered his soul, almost making him sob. But he couldn't. He could hardly breathe. Arthur did not doubt Guinevere. He trusted her enough to move the blade, even when he'd just witnessed her trying to murder Lancelot.

"Arthur," she whispered, playing the innocent victim. This was what Arthur had fallen for. This is what Arthur believed her to be. This is what she meant when she had said that she could get Arthur to believe her. "Thank the gods you're back. I don't know what happened, Arthur, I have no idea what...As soon as you left, he just lost it and attacked me. Arthur - 

He turned around, ignoring her, and heading towards Lancelot who looked up at him weakly and uncertainly. The triumph in Guinevere's eyes was agonizing to endure. Arthur had chosen her over him - again. He was going to be discarded, locked up as dangerous, and forgotten by Arthur. Arthur would never acknowledge Lancelot in the ways that he -

But Arthur did not do brush him aside. Arthur moved to his side and lifted him slowly to his feet, carefully avoiding his wounds and ignoring the blood. He supported all of Lancelot's weight as he helped him back to the bed, cautiously holding him, then settling him in, not moving away in disgust or weariness. Lancelot buried his face in the crook of Arthur's neck, afraid to see Guinevere's expression, afraid that Arthur was just doing it out of pity with him, but relieved that he could - that Arthur was still there.

"Lancelot, what happened?" Arthur's voice, soothing and patient. Guinevere looked as surprised as Lancelot felt.

"I just told - "

"I didn't ask you," Arthur interrupted her, not even sparing her a glace. He continued to look expectantly at Lancelot, still calmly and rhythmically petting him.

"She attacked me. She tried to kill me," he answered simply, not having the strength to say anymore. Arthur tensed, but his petting did not still, and that comforted Lancelot. From Arthur's posture, the knight could tell that Arthur knew that that wasn't everything that had happened whist he was gone, but it was enough. Arthur believed him.

The door was still open - and Galahad and Gawain were standing there still as statues, guarding them, eyes murderous. Guinevere had nowhere to run. But she wasn't finished yet. She tried her last cards, still believing in her talent.

"You believe him, Arthur? You believe him - a fevered madman - instead of me? Me, who will be your wife? Who has loved you, fought by you and would die for you?" Her eyes were wild and imploring, begging with him, pleading with him, keeping up her act - her façade. She was a manipulator of men If Lancelot didn't know better, her may have fallen for it. . It had worked before - she had fooled them both - and she was sure of her powers.

Too sure.

Arthur's eyes flashed before they hardened. "No. I believe him, my first knight and best friend. You overestimate your self-worth, Guinevere, and you misjudged me; I would never have married you. Not whilst Lancelot lives. You are wrong: it is he who has loved me, fought by me and would die for me. Not you."

Her lips curled as she snarled at the both of them, making one final lunge at Lancelot. It was futile and she knew it, but she wasn't going down without a fight. "And, by all rights, he should be dead."

Arthur cradled Lancelot to him in such a way that, had she got as far as the bed, she would first have to deal with Arthur.

But she never made it that far.

Without a word or any warning, Gawain and Galahad were standing protectively in between her and the bed, axe and sword drawn, and pointing right at her. She could not run without being cut down.

She stilled, not ceasing in cursing Lancelot in her native tongue as well as any Latin she had managed to pick up. She knew she was staring at death in the face. One order from Arthur, or, indeed, Lancelot, and she would be dead. She was furious at them all, she was used to getting her way and she had thought Merlin had taught her well.

Arthur's hand never stilled, and Lancelot remained where he was, held tenderly against Arthur's chest. Arthur's eyes softened slightly, disappointment clear in their depths.

"Why, Guinevere? After all we've done for you and your people. Why?" Instead of answering, she lifted her chin defiantly. "I can understand your desire to rule your people, but that's not all, is it? Some form of sick revenge?" He shook his head, knowing full well that he wasn't about to get an answer. "I'm sorry it had to turn out this way, but you tried to kill Lancelot; you hurt him. Guinevere, you must understand: if you go against Lancelot then you go against me. Gawain, Galahad." Arthur gestured towards the door, and the two knights moved as one, lowering their weapons and pulling Guinevere forcefully out of the room.

For a moment, neither man moved. As Guinevere had thrown her last hateful glance into the room, the magnitude of what had just past hit Arthur. He let his eyes scan the room then come to rest on the curly head, resting against his chest.

He'd come so close to losing Lancelot. Again.

But the steady heartbeat reassured him. This time, he had come in time. This time, Lancelot was not so close to death. Arthur almost flinched as he mentally slapped himself. He needed to check Lancelot's wounds to make sure he wasn't too hurt - he wouldn't risk losing him, not again.

He pulled away and Lancelot whimpered, hands grabbing at his shirt, not wanting to let go, but Arthur was insistent.

"I need to clean your wounds, Lancelot. I need to make sure that you're ok."

Lancelot's source of warmth and support disappeared for a short moment, but soon, the bed dipped again.

And Arthur's hand was smoothing the hair away from his forehead once more, a cool cloth wiping his face and cleaning his wounds. "Rest, Lancelot. I'm not going anywhere. Not this time," Arthur whispered, voice filled with guilt, and shaking slightly from a mixture of fear and relief.

He wanted to tell Arthur that it wasn't his fault, that it didn't matter, to stop blaming himself, and a thousand other things, but he was so tired and Arthur's voice and presence was so comforting and warm, Lancelot couldn't fight it anymore. He let the darkness once again cover him with its blanket.


End file.
